NOTHING, I signed as I sat up and scooted up the bed until my back was against the wall.

Mom’s eyes narrowed, and she sat there waiting for a better explanation. I gave in with a huff, dropping my head into my hands so I didn’t have to look at her while I spoke.

I used my voice because I didn’t think I could muster up any other signs besides stupid or frustrated to describe what happened or how I currently felt.

“Beau’s second birthday present for me was a bunch of information about CIs and a doctor in the area I can contact about possibly getting one. Dr. Porter, as luck would have it.”

Mom’s grip on my knee tightened almost painfully.

HE KNOW YOU DON’T WANT CI? she asked me slowly.

YES, I signed back. HE KNOW, AND HE GIVE ME THAT. BEFORE I THINK B-E-A-U LIKE ME, I kept on signing, focusing on signing rather than the uncomfortable feeling stirring in the pit of my stomach. AND I THINK HE LIKE ME DEAF. BUT NOW . . . DON’T KNOW.

Mom signed, OH I SEE, once I was done with my story. She seemed just as lost as I did at that moment, unsure of what to think about the whole thing.

I THINK HE WANT HELP YOU, she signed eventually. I THINK SOME HEARING PEOPLE BELIEVE ALL DEAF SAD BECAUSE THEY CAN’T HEAR.

NOT TRUE, I signed, sitting upright. NOT SAD I DEAF. SAD BECAUSE B-E-A-U WANT ME . . .

“. . . to change myself,” I said, finishing my train of thought with my voice. “I’m happy being Deaf. Why is that so hard to believe?”

Mom winced as she shrugged, signing, DON’T KNOW. I BELIEVE YOU.

It usually took a herculean amount of effort on my part to be honest when it came to touchy feely stuff like this, but since I’d already told Mom everything else, I might as well come right out with the rest of it.

“Mom, I really like Beau,” I said. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—deny that anymore. “And just when I finally convince myself it doesn’t matter he’s hearing, this happens?”

“Honey, relationships . . . never easy,” Mom said with a sad little smile. “But . . . doesn’t have . . . end. Not if . . . don’t want.”

“I don’t know what I want anymore.”

I think I groaned as I scrubbed my hands over my face.

Mom gave my knee another squeeze to get me to look at her, and when I did, she signed, FINE. YOU YOUNG. HAVE TIME.

I guessed that was true, but what good was that going to do me, at least where Beau was concerned?

It didn’t help so much with the guilt thing when she signed, SORRY, next.